


The Problem

by wombuttress



Series: Poor Communication Kills [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Shenanigans, lavellan cannot spit it out, lavellan is an emotionally constipated fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan has a problem. The problem's name is Dorian Pavus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem

Hathorn Lavellan had a problem.

It wasn’t a problem he was accustomed to having. Hathorn was, for all his faults, a direct person. He was good at saying what he meant, doing as said he would do, and shooting things with arrows. It made him a good hunter, a good leader, and an absolutely terrible diplomat—the only thing that had saved him from getting ejected from any number of social functions was Josephine, who had by necessity developed the ability to telepathically predict when Hathorn would say something rude and swoop in to prevent him.

The problem’s name was Dorian Pavus.

He just didn’t know what to do with the man. They’d spent—how many months now?—taking romantic walks around Skyhold, drinking brandy, stealing kisses in remote locales. They were…dating. Hathorn had no idea what to do about that. The Dalish didn’t exactly date. You could have sex with whoever you wanted, and if you were so inclined, bond with someone, which could include sex or not. This whole courting ritual of dancing around each other without actually—well, it just didn’t make sense to him. He was stumped.

If it had been up to him, he would have simply walked up to the man, and said something like, “You fight good. Nice moustache. Let’s have sex.”

And then they would have sex. A lot.

Except that wasn’t how it happened, not even a little.

What had _actually_ happened was that any time he made his way to the library, intending on being Direct with Dorian, Dorian would say something like, “Could I adore you more? Probably not.” And Hathorn would completely forget everything he was about to say, his purpose in coming to the library, and his own name. And then he would stand there looking like an idiot for a few seconds, mutter “We’ll talk later,” and then abscond from the library to hide in a closet and blush furiously for a while.

This had happened at least a half-dozen times already.

He was pretty sure Vivienne had spotted him emerging from the closet once already. She hadn’t said anything about it yet, but it was only a matter of time until she did, and then Hathorn might finally be driven to—to quote Sera—“stick a bundle of arrows up her tightly puckered rim”.

It was embarrassing. He could backtalk empresses and darkspawn abominations, he could order around an entire massive international paramilitary organization, he could sit on his extremely fancy chair and send people to their deaths, but he could not be upfront with his boyfriend. It was his damn _eyes._ Those huge warm eyes and the way they crinkled when he smiled. How could anyone maintain decorum with eyes like that on him?

But Hathorn was nothing if not determined. Since his usual method obviously wouldn’t work, he would do as any good leader did—he would delegate. He would seek advice.

 

\--

He entered Sera’s room through the window, because he had happened to be on the roof and her window happened to be open. She almost shot him.

“Oy! You could give me a little warning!” she said, tossing down the expensive bow he’d given her. He swallowed down his instinct to tell her that this was a fine Dalish hunter’s bow with a masterwork grip and a rune of fire inscribed upon it, and that she really shouldn’t be throwing it around like that.

“Sorry,” he said insincerely.

“Yeah, well, what’s Ser Lordybloomers want?” She crossed her arms. “And what were you on the roof for, anyway?”

Hathorn shifted uncomfortably. “I, er, perch there sometimes.”

“You perch? Wot, like a bird?”

“No, like a proud Dalish hunter,” Hathorn corrected. “I like to watch Skyhold from up there. You know.”

“Don’t you have an actual balcony?”

Hathorn blinked. “Yes? That’s not the point. I came to ask you something.”

“Did you now. Well, what is it?”

Hathorn laced his fingers in front of him and tried to think of how to explain. “Remember that Orlesian merchant we beat the tar out of? And then we broke into his mansion and tore up the place and stole that amulet? Along with a lot of other things?”

“Shite, yeah, I remember!” Sera grinned. “That was a good time.”

“Right, and remember how I meant to give the amulet to Dorian, and assumed he would get the hint? So I wouldn’t have to actually say anything?”

“Yeah, yeah. And did Magister Sparklefingers like his jewelry?”

Hathorn rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, sort of. But he definitely didn’t get the hint. So. I need to figure out how to woo Dorian.”

“Oh, is that all?” Sera made a big show of thinking for several moments. Then she slung am arm around his shoulders, put a finger on his chest, leaned in close, and said, “Suck his dick.”

Hathorn sighed and disentangled himself from her. “Thank you, Sera.”

“What?” she complained. “Did you expect me to know anything about men? _Me?”_ She gigglesnorted. It was adorable.

He hadn’t expected that. He just sort of didn’t have very many friends.

“I normally would do what you said,” he said defensively. “It’s just hard with Dorian.”

Sera smirked. “Ehehe. Hard.”

“Yes, it’s very difficult!” Hathorn said frustratedly. “A man like Dorian has style, he has class. He deserves something of a finer cut."'

Sera's smirk aggressively grew to a maniacal grin. "Well, just how finely cut are you?"

Hathorn didn't notice. "And I just don’t know what to say," he finished."

“Well don’t bloody well ask me." Sera shrugged and sat back, crossing her arms. "You ever decide you like girls instead, maybe I’ll think of something.”

“Unlikely,” Hathorn said dryly.

“I’ve got _loads_ of whatsits about girls.”

“By whatsits, do you mean innuendos?”

“Yes! Piss, you know what I meant.”

“Thanks, Sera.”

\--

If there was anyone in the Inquisition who knew about men, it had to be Iron Bull. Which was convenient, because he was right downstairs and going to ask him didn’t require Hathorn to traipse around Skyhold and get lost in the dungeons repeatedly.

In fact, Hathorn had intimate knowledge of just how well Iron Bull knew men. It had been months ago and he was still sore.

And not that Iron Bull wasn’t attractive. (Ridiculously so. He had to agree with Sera. “All big and _phwoar”_ was ideal.) It was just that in their singular, highly memorable encounter, the Qunari had taken it upon himself to make it his life’s quest to, in his own words, remove the stick up his ass and replace it with something else.

Hathorn didn’t like that at all. He liked his stick. He liked it firmly wedged up in there. He didn’t want anyone dislodging it. He was the Inquisitor and he would have a stick up his ass if he wanted, thank-you-very-much.

Metaphorically speaking.

But Iron Bull certainly knew his way around a man, and so it was to him Hathorn went.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, Bull.”

“Hey, Boss.”

“Bull, I need your help.”

“Oh, so you’re finally ready for round two?”

“No!” Hathorn said in his typical deep, manly voice, and not at all in an undignified high-pitched squeal of terror. “No, that’s quite alright! Thank you! It’s not that!”

“Oh, sorry. You had that look in your eye and I assumed—ah, anyway, what is it, boss?”

“I need some way to woo Dorian. I just can’t seem to spit it out around him.”

“Then you should swallow,” Iron Bull said reasonably.

Hathorn blinked, three times. “What? No, that’s the opposite of my problem. I can’t seem to tell him how I feel. I tried stealing him jewelry and he still doesn’t get it.”

“Hm. That _is_ a problem.” Bull put a sausagey finger to his chin and thought hard. “You should try fisting him.”

“Yes Bull thank you very much Bull,” Hathorn said tightly, turned on his heel, and left the tavern so abruptly that he completely forgot to ask Krem, who might have had something actually useful to say.

“See you later, Boss,” Bull called after him.

\--

And that was just about it for his close friends.

Well, he got along with Cole just fine. And he was just right upstairs. But he was also some sort of weird spirit kid and Hathorn could already imagine how that conversation would go.

“Cole, I need your help.”

“Help, that’s what I do, always helping, seeking out the hurts.”

“Er, yes. You see, I need woo Dorian.”

“Gazing, grasping, always out of reach, the love that dare not speak its name.”

“Thank you, Cole, never mind, Cole, how was your day?”

Anyway, going to go see Cole would require him to go back into the tavern, which he was absolutely not prepared to do.

Who else could he talk to? He thought of everyone he knew. Absolutely no force upon Mythal’s good green earth could have induced him to ask Vivienne anything, ever, under any circumstances, period. So that was right out. His relationship with his advisers was strictly professional. Or, alright, his relationship with Leliana was strictly professional. His relationship with Josephine was more like that of an exasperated caretaker and their charge. And he actually didn’t like Cullen at all and habitually ignored his advice and everything he said. This was only exacerbated by the fact that the last three times he’d accidentally wandered into Cullen’s office by mistake, he’d been treated to a lot of dramatic wall-punching and tear-choked monologues about the sufferings of Templars.

Also, he wasn’t entirely sure that Cullen even knew what sex was _._

Leliana definitely knew. Leliana knew a lot of things. Leliana knew to send assassins first and ask questions later. Hathorn had a lot of appreciation of Leliana. He also had a healthy amount of fear of her, and decided it best not to bother her.

He passed by Cassandra beating the shit out of an innocent, blameless practice dummy. She was probably imagining it was him, actually. He idly entertained the thought of asking her, just to annoy her. Hathorn had few delights in this world, and irritating Cassandra was most of them. He could get hours of entertainment by standing around her and innocently asking for her advice on all sorts of petty matters, watching her struggle to come up with something useful to say, which she would invariably do for quite a long time before finally getting frustrated and telling him to piss off.

But after a recent incident wherein she’d yelled at him quite a lot and almost smashed him over the head with a bottle of liquor, he was feeling a tad wary. Cassandra was a lot bigger than him and could absolutely pick him up and throw him over the walls of Skyhold if she wanted to.

Anyway, what would Cassandra possibly know about romance? The very notion was ridiculous.

That left…Blackwall, Solas and Varric.

He had absolutely no opinion of Blackwall. The man stood in front of him in battle with a big shield and got pummeled while he hung back and shot things with arrows, which was Good, but Hathorn also had the vague impression that he disliked Dorian for some reason, which was Bad and Wrong. He had a nice beard, he supposed, but it wasn’t even the best facial hair in the inquisition.

Had…had he actually ever had an entire conversation with Blackwall?

They exchanged grunts, occasionally. Sometimes. Well, maybe it was worth a shot. He ambled on over Blackwall’s weird little stable-house, where he lived for some reason.

Blackwall grunted in acknowledgement when he saw him.

Hathorn gave a grunt of acknowledgement back.

He stood in the stable with his arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot. Blackwall seemed alright with this.

Eventually Hathorn said, “Nice horse-thing,” and left.

Well, that was fruitful.

Solas it was, then.

He liked Solas. Solas was Elfy. Solas knew about Elf Stuff, and Hathorn approved of Elf Stuff. Or, theoretically at least. He could find himself in some ancient ruins and feel very positive about them, even though he didn’t know jack about what they were supposed to be or mean. Generally he would ask Solas about it just to make him happy, and then half-listen to his explanation as he rooted around the place for interesting loot. He wondered sometimes if that made him a Bad Dalish, but he was more interested in the future of the Dalish. The past of the Dalish was all well and good, and had to be aggressively preserved as much as possible just to piss off all the shems that didn’t want it preserved, but Hathorn just didn’t have the temperament for it. He would be the Elfiest Elf of all time in front of the shems, alright, but they didn’t have to know about his severe allergy to boring old shit.

His sibling, on the other hand, was endlessly excitable by—well, had been. Had been excited by. The memory of them was sharp and painful, and he immediately squashed it down to the bottom of his mind, where it would remain forever and never trouble him again.

He tried to listen, though, he did! He had a specially arranged Listening Face that he habitually used with Solas and Josephine. He tried very hard to be interested in spirity Fade nonsense and in boring diplomacy stuff, but just in case he nodded off and started thinking about arrows instead, he had the Listening Face.

Josephine, a trained diplomat, had cottoned onto his usage of the Face almost immediately, and took steps to circumvent his personality when telling him information.

Solas, though, didn’t seem to realize the function of the Listening Face, and as a result, was on quite good terms with him.

Hathorn entered the rotunda and lead with, “Solas, I have a question.” Asking Solas questions was always a good way to go.

“Lethallin. Of course.”

Hathorn glanced nervously upward and lowered his voice. “I need to figure out some way to woo Dorian.”

“Hm. I see.” Solas put a long finger to his chin. “I recall I was once dreaming in the Fade, and I met a spirit of Love.”

“Oh?” said Hathorn, appearing to be listening intently, edging imperceptibly towards the exit.

What followed was perhaps a half-hour long story concerning something that Hathorn wasn’t entirely sure of, for despite his best efforts, his mind drifted in the direction of a memory of slaying a High Dragon in the Emprise the previous week. He’d managed to get the killing blow on it with an arrow through the eye. Sera and Bull had been so excited. They’d talked about it the whole way back to Skyhold.

“Does that answer your question?” Solas said eventually.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Hathorn replied. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Well, goodbye.”

And he darted the remaining distance to the door and found himself in the throne room.

It was full of Orlesians, which he didn’t like, but was also full of ostentatious symbols of his power, which he did like.

It also contained Varric, who was his last hope.

“Varric,” he said, sitting down heavily at the table by the hearth, still feeling rather strained and desperate from the conversation with Solas. “I need your help.”

“Well, sure, Sticks,” the dwarf said. “What’s troubling you?”

“Dorian. Dorian is troubling me. I need to woo him. Everyone else is completely useless.”

Varric quirked an eyebrow. “And you’re asking me?”

Hathorn made an irritated sound in the back of his throat. “You’ve written a romance serial, haven’t you? You know about this sort of thing.”

Varric laughed awkwardly. “Ah, well, you see, to be honest, I mostly just make shit up. Romance isn’t exactly, uh, my area of expertise.”

“No, no, this is perfect!” Hathorn seized the dwarf by the shoulders. “Making shit up is exactly what I need! Just make me up some shit! Yes! Perfect!”

“Well,” Varric said. “Alright, I guess. Here, let me just get some parchment and ink, I’ll write something up for you, alright?”

“Yes,” Hathorn said. He sat down on the bunch and pulled his knees up to his chin, watching intently.

The author glanced up from the scratching of his quill. “You, uh, just gonna sit there the whole time?”

“Yes,” Hathorn said simply.

“Alright, then.”

Eventually, Varric put the quill down, blowing on the parchment to dry the ink. “Try this on for size. It should do alright, hopefully.”

Hathorn snatched the parchment up, crowing with delight. “Excellent.” He leapt off the table and out of the throne room.

Now all he had to do was find someone to read this nonsense to him, seeing as he had lived all his life in the woods and had no idea how to read, a fact which he continued to cleverly conceal from Josephine by casually ordering underlings to read things to him.

But as soon as he found someone, and memorized the words of romantic intent—Dorian would be wooed, Creators damn it. He would be _wooed._

\--

That evening, following a highly enjoyable series of acts, Hathorn lay contentedly in his bed, enjoying the view—namely, that of Dorian’s ass. He would prefer the ass and the man it was attached to to get back in bed, but this was alright, too.

Truly Varric was a miracle worker. Only he could come up with such absurdly clever hokey romance lines. Everything had worked out perfectly.

Then Dorian turned around—improving the view spectacularly—and sat down. “So,” he said, “We should talk about where this is going.”

Hathorn stared at the ceiling, processing this new information.

Eventually, it reached his sluggishly functioning brain.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He hadn’t planned this far.

**Author's Note:**

> Hathorn Lavellan is something like the eighth inquisitor I've made up and subsequently Hathorn's views on various companions do not reflect the author's views. Except on Cullen, who I don't like at all.
> 
> I just couldn't imagine my emotionally constipated, socially awkward, incredibly rude and quite aggressive inquisitor 1. taking so long to do The Sex with someone, and 2. saying any of that in-game romance dialogue
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](http://gayspacejew.tumblr.com/)  
> [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
